


Improving Memories While Trying to Forget

by cableknitbowtiesarecool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cableknitbowtiesarecool/pseuds/cableknitbowtiesarecool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard Brook awakes from a coma after a year and a half. Dazed and confused, with no substantial records of which to speak, Richard is forced to turn to the only man that sends of a spark of recognition through him: John Watson. </p><p>John, still broken and scarred from Sherlock's loss, looks at Richard Brook and takes the opportunity as a chance for renewal rather than revenge. He takes Richard in, helps him forget Jim Moriarty. Together, John and Richard quest for healing and understanding. All is going well until a certain someone shows up and finds Jim doing domestic with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little fic that's been riding around in my head for a few days. Not Brit-Picked or Beta'd, but I try to catch mistakes. As always, let me know if you see anything substantial. I whipped this out in about an hour and a half and will probably finish it within a few days. Feel free to comment. I love to hear opinions. 
> 
> Also, not a doctor. Taking artistic license will all of that business. I'm sure John is a bit OOC, but I did it anyway. If thinking of it as slightly AU is helpful, you go right ahead.
> 
> The chapters will be short, but installments enable me to publish as I write it, rather than in one fell swoop. Rating may go up in later chapters. Not sure yet.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't now own BBC Sherlock or its characters. I wish I did, but I do not. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“So, that’s it then,” he asked with a confused look on his face. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Brook. There’s not much else we can do for you without any sort of emergency contacts or other information. We just…aren’t finding much by way of identification.”

Richard Brook nodded. “All right,” he said. “Thank you, anyway, I suppose.”

The curly haired nurse looked upon him with sympathy. “S’all right. I wish I could help a bit more, but I’m not at liberty to really—“

“No no,” Richard said quickly. “You’ve done loads. Thanks to this surgery, I’m not a vegetable. That’s always good, yeah?”

She smiled. “You bet, love.”

He thought for a moment. “I just… wish I could remember anything about who I am. All I know is Richard Brook, the Storyteller, was found with a bullet in his brain on the roof of St. Bart’s hospital.” He’d recited it loads of times before. It really was all he knew. 

The nurse looked at him with sympathy. “Maybe you could try one of your phone contacts, Mr. Brook. I bet one of them could help you with who you are.”

Richard thought for a moment. He could think of nothing more awkward than calling up a person and saying, “Hello there. You were in my phone, so I thought I’d try calling you to see if you could tell me who I am and if I happen to have a flat that I could go home to.” However, it seemed the only choice. He’d been in the hospital for nearly a year and a half. In the mother of all comas. Everyday, his brain had continued working, astounding the nurses and doctors with the level of activity. Maybe that was why they hadn’t pulled him off life support. Or maybe he had some mysterious benefactor he didn’t know a thing about. 

All Richard Brook did know was that he remembered nothing about his life. Nothing at all. The doctors had told him that it was a miracle that he hadn’t suffered more cranial damage. Apparently, he’d gotten very lucky, the bullet just missing his brain stem. He shouldn’t have lived, they said. Yet, here he was, alive, his hair completely grown back and his body relatively healthy for a man who hadn’t moved or eaten properly for over a year.

And now they were releasing him. There was no question of a bill. Ever since he’d woken, everyone had looked upon ‘Richard the Miracle Patient’ with sympathy and kindness. Fat lot of good that kindness did him now that he had nowhere to go, no one to whom he could turn. 

But Richard figured that there had to be a reason he had survived this. The doctors told him that his wound was undoubtedly self inflicted. An attempted suicide. But why? Whatever the reason, he had lived through it. That had to count for something.  
So he stepped outside into the mild London weather. It was raining, as usual. Richard remembered that much. Things that were common knowledge. Things that made no difference to him whatsoever. He also knew from his own accent that he was not from England originally. No. He was Irish. Not that that had helped him much.

He took the phone that he had scrolled through constantly after he’d woken. There had been name upon name in the contact list. He hadn’t recognized any of them. But there had been one that had stuck out to him. He didn’t know why, but it was like a strange pang in his gut. He’d been trying for the entire week that he’d been awake to work up the guts to call it. Now, he seemed to have no choice. It was as good a bet as any.

“Hello?”

Richard took a quick breath. “Hello? Is this John Watson?”

Silence on the other line. “Yes,” came the response. “Who is this?”

Richard bit his lip. “This might seem a little odd to you, but I’m calling because you were in my contacts with a bunch of others, and yours was the only name that gave me any sort of reaction.”

More silence. “Sorry,” John Watson said. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” Richard replied. “It’s Richard. Richard Brook. D-do you know me?”

Silence. Richard waited. More silence. He swallowed heavily. “H-hello?”

“Richard Brook,” John finally echoed. “The actor?” There was something like disbelief and barely concealed rage in his voice. Richard ignored it, pleased that this stranger knew him at all.

“Yes, that’s right,” he said excitedly. “They said that I acted. I was the Storyteller in a kid’s telly program. Do you know anything else about me? All I know was that I’m called Richard Brook, I was found with a gunshot wound in my head on the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital, and I was an actor. They said I’ve been in a coma for nearly five hundred days.”

“Who said,” John croaked.

“The doctors,” Richard replied. “Please, tell me something. Are we friends?”

“Not exactly,” came the response. 

“Oh,” said Richard, his face falling. “Sorry to bother you then. Were we at least on semi-friendly terms?” His mind swam and something came to the surface. “You’re… this is awkward… you’re not an ex-boyfriend of mine, or something, are you?” He was gay. Where had that come from? Richard hadn’t the slightest idea, but that was accurate. He felt it inside.

John Watson gave a mirthless laugh. “No. Nothing like that.”

Richard bit his lip to keep back a sigh of impatience. “Well, erm, could you answer a question for me, John?”

A long silence. “What?”

“How did we know each other?”

“We had a mutual… acquaintance,” came the stiff reply.

“Brilliant,” Richard exclaimed. “Where can I find him? Perhaps he knows where I live.”

“He… he died. About a year and a half ago.” John took an audible breath on the other line.

Richard felt his face fall. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“No, no. How could you know, if you don’t remember who you are. Sherlock Holmes was his name.”

Richard stood still for a moment, waiting to see if the name would click in any way. It didn’t. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t remember…”

John sighed. “Interesting.”

“What...er… what happened to him,” Richard asked in a hoarse whisper.

“A man called Moriarty happened to him. You knew him too.”

“Did I,” Richard replied. Still nothing. “What did he do?” He stopped as a horrible thought flashed through him. “Did I do something?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” John replied. 

Richard blinked. He could tell by John’s voice that he had been involved with this Sherlock Holmes’ death somehow. “I’m… I’m sorry if I did anything. I don’t… I just… can’t remember.”

“Forget it,” John said, a tad gruffly.

Richard took a deep breath, passing a hand over his face. “Erm… I’m sure you don’t really want to keep talking to me, but… I could use some help.”  
“With what,” John wanted to know.

“I…er… they just let me out of the hospital. But… there’s no record of where I live. There’s nothing about any jobs I had in the past few years, if I had family. Nothing. I was hoping… I was hoping—“

“That I knew where you could go,” John finished for him.

“Yeah,” Richard said softly.

“I dunno. Is—Sherlock mentioned a man called Sebastian Moran once. Do you know someone called Sebastian?”

There was a moment of silence as Richard thought about the name. Nothing came to mind. Big surprise there. He’d memorized the names of his contacts. There was no one by that name there. “No,” he admitted.

“I… really don’t know what to tell you,” John replied.

Richard’s face fell. “Oh… that’s all right. It was a long shot anyway. Yours was just the only name that seemed to mean anything to me. I’ll let you go now.”

“Wait,” John cut in before Richard hung up. 

“Yes,” Richard said with a new hope in his voice.

“D-do you have anywhere to go,” John asked.

“No,” Richard admitted. “I’ve no idea where to go. I figured I’d just… try all my contacts.”

John laughed again, the same dry sound as before. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

Richard frowned. “Why not,” he asked.

“Just trust me.”

“All right,” Richard said slowly. “So what do you propose I do?”

“Why don’t you… I can’t believe I’m saying this… why don’t you come to mine. 221B Baker Street. I’ll help you as best I can. I’m a doctor. You can trust me.”

Richard smiled. “Brilliant,” he exclaimed. “Thank you so much, John. I’ll be over shortly.”

“Good,” John answered, rather unenthusiastically. Richard paid it no mind. At least he had a direction now.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” he said.

“Okay.”

Richard hung up, dashing forward to the street to hold his hand out for a cab. When one stopped for him, he slid inside and repeated the address he’d been given. The cabbie nodded and sped off. Hopefully, this John could give Richard some answers.


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson hung up his mobile phone. What had he just done? This could be one of Moriarty’s ridiculous traps. And John had walked right into it. But the Consulting Criminal had disappeared off the face of the earth after Sherlock… he swallowed. After Sherlock had died. And now he was resurfacing a year and a half after that day? For what purpose? Sherlock was still very dead. There was no need for it. And the man on the phone, Richard Brook, had seemed lost and confused. John had had his grief. He lived alone now. There was no one else who could give him what Sherlock had. But John had thought maybe, just maybe, his life still had a purpose. Maybe Richard Brook had called him up, no recollection of Moriarty and the terrible man he had been, so that John could give that man a chance. Sherlock would have called him ridiculous, but John had learned not to believe in coincidence. This had to be some sort of weird intervention. John was not a religious man, but this had to be a sign of some sort. 

Of course, John Watson was also no fool. Moriarty was the most manipulative son of a bitch he’d ever had the displeasure to encounter. If this was him under the façade of poor, confused amnesiac, Richard Brook, John would be ready. This was why, when John heard the dull knocking on the door downstairs he called out, “I will get it, Mrs. Hudson. Leave off,” and tucked his illegal sidearm into the waistband of his faded jeans.

The man that stood before him on the stoop sent a visceral reaction through John. He couldn’t help it. He was looking into the face of the man who had killed his best friend. John didn’t care that Sherlock had jumped. It was Moriarty’s fault somehow. The consulting detective he knew wouldn’t have committed suicide. He just… wouldn’t.

John looked upon the man who claimed to Richard Brook with guarded caution.

“Are you, John Watson, then,” the skinny man asked him, looking genuinely confused.

“Yes,” John answered, the gun pressing securely to his lower back as he gave Richard a once over. “I am.”

Richard grinned, shoving out a hand to John. “I’m Richard. I mean you probably already knew that, but I don’t remember you so I feel like I should introduce myself.”  
John took the proffered hand hesitantly, the long thin fingers reminding him of another hand he had once held.

Moriarty, or Richard, or whatever, looked like hell. It was fair, John supposed. The man had claimed to have been in a coma for over a bloody year. Still, the deep shadowing under the eyes and the unhealthy pallor to the skin was more than a bit disconcerting. 

“Come in, I suppose,” John said. He wondered what Sherlock would think of John inviting Moriarty into their flat of his own volition. It was reckless, he’d say. You’re an idiot, he’d say. But John had been through caring about life and what happened to him the day that Sherlock had pitched himself off of that blasted roof.

“Thanks,” Richard said warmly. “I really appreciate this, mate.”

John nodded gruffly, following Richard up the stairs. He knew better than to present the man with his back. 

The flat was the same as it had been a year and a half ago. Like some macabre caricature of John’s life with Sherlock. He hadn’t bothered to move anything. The detective wouldn’t like it. In fact, Sherlock’s chemistry equipment still sat on the counter. He’d had no experiments going at the time of his death, or John reckoned they’d still be festering there. A thin layer of dust covered everything that was Sherlock’s, barely disturbed by John’s puttering about. Richard noted this with confusion. “I’m getting an odd sense of Déjà vu,” he admitted to John as he stepped into the sitting room. 

“I suppose you would,” John said with bitterness he could not bite back.

Richard turned to look at him, concern painted on his face. John merely shook his head. “Make yourself at home,” he said softly. This was supremely fucked up. Even John could see it. The man that had caused his greatest misery, had destroyed him even, now stood in his sitting room. John was even being partway decent to him. Perhaps a stronger man, a more loyal man, would have put a gun to Richard’s head the moment he saw him and finished the job he’d apparently started at Bart’s. 

“Thanks,” Richard said with a grin. He moved to settle into a leather armchair by the fireplace.

“NOT THERE,” John bellowed, half scaring Richard out of his wits. John shook his head. “Sorry. Sorry. That’s… erm… that’s Sherlock’s chair. No one’s sat there for a year and a half.”

Richard softened immediately. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine,” John said. “Sit here,” he gestured to his own chair, with its Union Jack pillow and inviting seat. He didn’t allow people to occupy Sherlock’s chair. The detective wouldn’t like it.  
“Tea,” John asked awkwardly. How does one cater to a criminal mastermind that doesn’t remember a lick about his life? Tea was the British thing to do, and what else could he say?

“Yes, thanks,” Richard said with a grin. 

“Erm…how do you take it?”

Richard thought for a moment before giving a laugh. “I haven’t the slightest.”

John gave a grin that was more of a grimace. “All right. I’ll just… bring you the stuff, then.”

Richard shook his head. “You can just give it to me straight. I’ll cope.” He didn’t want to impose on a man who already seemed uncomfortable in his skin.

“Fine.” John puttered off into the kitchen to put the water on. Richard sat silent for a moment, clicking his tongue as he surveyed his surroundings. His dark eyes fell upon a mantle laden with picture frames and other clutter. One particular object stuck out to him. “Is that a… human skull,” he called.

John poked his head out of the door. “That’s Reginald. He was a friend of Sherlock’s.” John grinned to himself. “Well, I say friend…”

Richard gave a nervous laugh as John disappeared back into the kitchen. Richard stayed at the mantel, taking in the objects there. Beside a stack of letters stabbed through with a letter opener were a series of images featuring the same man. Most appeared to be newspaper cutouts. He seemed familiar to Richard, with his high, elegant cheekbones and softly curling hair. 

Two images in particular stood out to Richard. Both featured the tall, elegant man and John Watson. The first was a shot of the two of them leaning against the wall in this very flat, John looking exasperated at the camera while the other man appeared to be studying him with a look that read… fascination. 

The other image was even more striking. Both men appeared to be walking away from a hospital or a university of some kind. It had to be a relatively candid shot, for each looked at the other with huge grins on their faces. In John’s countenance was a clear adoration. According to another image, one of the newspaper clippings, this was Sherlock Holmes. This was the man with whose death Richard had had a hand somehow. He swallowed heavily. Evidently, he was also the man with whom John Watson was in love. It was plain to see in the shorter man’s face. Sherlock’s expression wasn’t so open, but it was clear that they were at least close.

The sound of a throat clearing behind him led Richard to whirl. John stood by the chair Richard had just occupied, a mug of tea in one hand. Richard smiled weakly. “Nice pictures,” he commented.

“Thanks,” John said softly. “We never had them up when he was alive. He thought it was strange to see himself around his flat when the real thing lived there. That’s Sherlock, by the way.”

“I saw,” Richard returned, nodding. He reached out with ginger fingers and took the tea that John offered. The hot liquid passed soothingly over his tongue, and he found that he liked the bitter taste of tea unfettered by sugar or cream or milk. Black it is, then.

Richard settled back into the chair John had designated. The other man pulled up a wooden stool from the corner of the room to join him. “John,” Richard ventured after a moment.

“Yes?”

Richard took another sip of tea. “Could you do me a favor,” he asked.

John thought for a moment. “Suppose it depends on what it is,” he answered.

Richard nodded. “C-could you tell me about myself,” he asked tentatively. “All of it. I… er… don’t care if it’s bad. I just… it’s terribly frustrating having no idea who you are.”

“I can imagine,” John replied. He swallowed a mouthful of tea. “You might not like it.”

“That’s all right,” Richard replied eagerly. “If it helps, then I’ll appreciate it just the same. The doctors said that, if my memory ever comes back, it’ll happen in a rush because of some kind of trigger. Maybe you’ll be that trigger.”

If that happens, I will not hesitate to put a bullet in you, John thought to himself. He still felt the gun at the small of his back He wouldn’t even consider it. Moriarty would not be allowed to continue if Sherlock couldn’t. Not while John had breath in his body. Of course, he said none of this to Richard. Instead, he said, “I’ll tell what little I know, if you think it’ll help. But I’m not going to sugarcoat it at all. It wouldn’t be right.”

Richard swallowed heavily, bracing himself. Judging by John’s buildup, it was going to be much worse than he thought. “All right.”

John took a sip of tea and then a breath. “You’re not Richard Brook,” he began.

“I’m not,” Richard asked, confused.

John shook his head. “Richard Brook is a persona you created.”

“Who am I, then?”

“Your name is James, er, Jim.”

“Jim,” Richard repeated, testing the name on his tongue. “Jim,” he said again, holding out the I for a moment before nodding. He could be a Jim. “Jim what?”

“Moriarty,” John said bluntly.

Moriarty. Now Richard remembered that name. But wait, no. That was the man John’d said—“No,” Richard squeaked.

John merely nodded, stone-faced. 

“But that means--“

“That you killed my best friend,” John bit out. “Yes.”

Richard leapt from his chair. “No,” he exclaimed. “I didn’t! I mean… I couldn’t have done that. I can’t be that kind of person.”

John softened a bit. This man seemed legitimately distressed. He’d admit that he had been a bit harsh. Normally, he never would have told an amnesiac something this traumatic in such a blunt manner. But this was James Moriarty. At least, it used to be. Not anymore. This man before him was just a confused, weak, and now utterly freaked out individual. John rose, putting a hand on the now pacing Richard’s hand. “Jim,” he said softly.

“No,” Richard snapped. “Don’t call me that. I will not be that person.”

John nodded. “You don’t have to be. Not anymore. You can just be Richard Brook, if you want. There are records.”

Richard nodded, his breathing labored. “Oh god,” he rasped. “You must hate me. You must want me dead. And here I am forcing myself on you.”

John sighed. “Calm down, Richard,” he said. “I hate Moriarty. You just said that you don’t want to be him. You don’t remember him. To me, that basically makes him dead.”

He was being too nice. When had John Watson gotten this soft? Perhaps in the year and a half of grief? Perhaps after he’d swallowed half a bottle of pain medication and had only lived because of Mycroft Holmes’ constant surveillance on the flat? He didn’t know. All John did know was that the old him would have killed this skinny person falling apart in his sitting room.

Richard took a few deep breaths. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry. So so sorry.”

It felt like the Twilight Zone. Sherlock’s real arch nemesis was apologizing for what he’d done. Something that would never have happened in John’s wildest dreams. It was all so surreal. John blinked a few times, a substitute for pinching himself. He was awake. “It’s…” he trailed off. It wasn’t okay. It wasn’t fine. It would never be anything of these things. No amount of apologizing would ever return Sherlock Holmes to him. Boundless ‘I’m sorrys’ wouldn’t fill the void in the army doctor’s heart where Sherlock had lived. So he settled on, “Forget it.”

Richard’s black eyes searched John’s. “What else,” he breathed. “What else did I do?”

John gave a mirthless laugh. “You once kidnapped me and strapped me to a Semtex vest so you could lure Sherlock to you.”

“Oh my God. I’m—“

“Don’t,” John cut in. “Don’t keep apologizing. There’s no point. It’s over and done with.” He grinned weakly. “Just don’t do it again.”

Richard shook his head. “I would never.”

John met his gaze. He held it for several long moments. “I believe you,” he said finally. He thought for a moment. “Here’s a good thing,” he said quickly. “You were absolutely brilliant. Probably still are. That sort of thing is inherent. You ran the most complex crime network ever been exposed in London. Of course, Sherlock got the credit for it. You made sure of it.”

Richard stared at John, but he was lost in what he was saying. “Every case we ran-- every major case—seemed to concern you somehow. Well, except for Baskerville.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t really know much about you besides the crime related things. You loved to wear Westwood suits. You were a good actor even back then.”

Richard felt his legs give out a bit. He stumbled back to the chair, jostling the tea that he had left on the side table. John came and joined him on the stool again. “I’m sorry if this is… a bit of a shock.”

Richard nodded, saying nothing. He needed a moment to digest what he’d heard. John could see that. “I’ll… erm… be right back.” He disappeared up the stairs to his bedroom. 

Richard dropped his head in his hands. Well, he knew who he was now. He was a terrible human being. A person who murdered other people and manipulated situations and threatened people like John Watson. Grand. Just brilliant. He squeezed his eyes shut. He had meant what he said. He would not be that person anymore. For as long as he didn’t remember Jim Moriarty, he didn’t exist. Richard wouldn’t allow it. Richard Brook could be stronger. Smarter. He took a breath, setting his resolve, which settled over him like a blanket and hardened like armor.

“I am Richard Brook,” he asserted to the empty air. “I am not James Moriarty. I am. Richard. Brook.” 

After he’d said it, he felt just a bit better. Moments later, John came thumping back down the stairs. Richard turned to look at him. For the first time since he’d entered 221B Baker Street, Richard noticed that John walked with an extremely pronounced limp. Richard glanced around quickly, his eyes coming to settle on a worn metal medical cane. He wondered fleetingly what had happened to John, whether he’d caused that limp or something else, but he elected not to ask. 

John held out a yellowed newspaper to Richard. “That’ll tell you more than I did,” he said.

Richard looked at the paper. On the front page was picture of him, only with a pointed air of arrogance and cruelty. The headline read: Crime of the Century. 

“You robbed the Bank of England, released all the inmates as Pentoville Prison, and managed to get into the Tower of London to wear the crown jewels. According to your testimony, you did it all with your mobile phone.” John studied the image on the front page. He’d seen it everywhere for a while, even after Sherlock’s death. He never thought he’d be having a civilized conversation with the man in it. Yet here he was. 

“I’d…um… rather not, actually,” Richard said. “Is that all right?”

“Yeah,” John said. “Of course.” He folded the paper and put it on the side table before resuming his position on the stool. “So, what are you going to do, then?”

Richard arched a brow. “About what?”

John licked his lips nervously. “I don’t know if you have a flat. And I think you see why trying your contacts isn’t the best idea. Have you got any money? I dunno if Moriarty set up a bank account for Richard Brook or not.”

“Even if he did,” Richard said, “I wouldn’t know the PIN.”

“Right,” John said. “I didn’t think of that.” He thought for a moment. He’d bite the bullet. If this was the intervention he thought it was, John knew what he had to do. “Why don’t you stay with me for the night,” he offered. “We can find you a place to go tomorrow or the next day.”

Richard looked at him. “Really,” he asked incredulously. “Even after… everything?”

John closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I’m a doctor. It’s my civic duty to care for people. You don’t remember who you were. You have no one else. What kind of human would I be if I just turned you out?”

“James Moriarty,” Richard said bitterly.

John gave a grim laugh. “I suppose so. I dunno how you were in person. You just…weren’t that pleasant when you were on business. But then, who is?”

Richard returned the weak smile. “If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition,” he said slowly.

“It wouldn’t. It’s not as though I get many visitors. And I don’t do much at night anyway.” Or at all. “You can stay up in my room.”

Richard blinked in disbelief. “Your room,” he parroted.

John followed his thoughts and immediately amended himself. “Oh no,” he said quickly. “My things are up there, but I’ve been sleeping in Sherlock’s bedroom since…” he trailed off, embarrassed. “I dunno why. It’s a bit weird, I suppose. It’s not as if we…”

So they hadn’t been open with one another about their emotions. Richard looked sad. He didn’t know what sort of man Sherlock Holmes was, but from the looks of the photos, something might have come of it. He opted on not commenting. It really really wasn’t his business.

Instead, Richard grinned softly. “I’d really appreciate it, John. Thank you.”

“It’s fine,” John said simply.


	3. Chapter 3

A few days turned into a few weeks. John still didn’t have the heart to turn Richard out of the flat. He was different. Jim Moriarty no longer existed. It was as though Richard was merely a man who looked like him. It didn’t mean that John let his guard down. He always had his gun. John knew too well the dangers of associating Jim Moriarty, whether he remembered who he was or not. There was bound to be someone at some point who did remember, and it might come back to bite John. He had to be ready. 

Truthfully, John and Richard had become tentative friends. Richard was a better flatmate in regard to housework and sharing responsibilities than Sherlock had ever been. He even paid the rent. Because he was so sharp minded, he also became the designated tax and bill payer. He could do the sums quickly and efficiently without use of a calculator and his work hadn’t be incorrect yet.

It hadn’t taken Richard long, as he really was talented, to find a stage job in a London Regional theater. He didn’t make much, but what he did he shared with John. He consistently got the milk and picked up the bill for take away, when he wasn’t working late on rehearsals and the like. 

At times, Sherlock Holmes hung over the two of them like a great black cloud. John never spoke directly about him unless Richard asked, but he gathered that John was still plagued by grief. On occasion, John would awake and, groggy, think that Moriarty was eating breakfast at his table. Richard had rather traumatically become acquainted with John’s L9A1 Browning on one such instance. He’d thought he was going to die in one terrifying instance before his cries of “John, it’s Richard,” had registered. Then, it had been a morning full of awkward apologies and Richard had ended up calling in sick.

Other times, John would be silent for extended periods of time. He would sit in the flat in a state of silence, his hands clutching something that had once been Sherlock’s. Sometimes his violin, more often his blue striped scarf. At least, Richard thought these things were Sherlock’s. John had never actually said. On the worst of these days, John wouldn’t even come out of Sherlock’s room. Richard had enough sense not to bother the other man on such occasions. He’d tiptoe about, avoiding making loud noises or doing anything that would disturb John. 

One night, Richard couldn’t sleep. Through his theater connections, he’d managed to secure himself an audition the following morning with a crime drama on the BBC. He was dying for the role. With his background, he had no doubt that he’d be brilliant for the part. He just had to get it first. This was, of course, what was keeping him up. He ran the sides he’d been given relentlessly, trying countless different inflections in his voice and working on stances, facial expressions, everything that he could think of. He had tried to sleep, but he’d only gotten distracted thinking about his words and worrying about potentially flubbing or forgetting them.

At 3 A.M., Richard made his way down the stairs with the intention of a cup of sleepytime tea. He couldn’t look like hell for the audition tomorrow. They’d take one look at him and the judgment would start.

On his way to the kitchen, Richard picked up a soft sound coming from John’s room. He stopped, straining to hear in the darkness. There was another muffled cry and then a full fledged shout. Alarmed, Richard moved to the door. Another shout. He froze. “Sherlock,” John had cried.

Taking a deep breath, Richard pushed open the door. 

John lay in the center of the bed, thrashing against his sheets. “Sherlock,” he said clearly. “Don’t. Please.”

Richard moved into the room. “John,” he said softly. 

No response at the thrashing continued. “Sherlock, please. Wait for me.”

Richard bit his lip. He shouldn’t be hearing this. It wasn’t right. He moved to stand just beside John’s bed. He ducked to avoid a wayward fist before placing a firm but gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “John,” he said again, a bit louder.  
John gave a shudder, but did not awaken. “Sherlock,” he moaned again.

“John, wake up. It’s a nightmare,” Richard said, making his voice as soothing as he could manage. “It’s all right.” He shook John’s shoulder gently. 

John jerked awake. “Sherlock,” he asked the darkness.

Richard shook his head, though John probably couldn’t see him. “Richard. It’s Richard, John.”

John sat up, reaching over to flick on the lamp. Richard drew back. He bit his lip. “Sorry,” he said softly. “I just… I heard you in the hall.”

John looked embarrassed. “It’s fine,” he croaked, his voice still hoarse from the shouting he’d done earlier. 

“Nightmare,” Richard ventured.

“Yeah.”

Richard stood awkwardly, unsure of whether or not his should leave. “Do you… er… want to talk about it?”

John looked up at Richard from tortured blue eyes. “You know what today is,” he asked.

Richard crinkled his brow, thinking. “January 6th,” he offered, knowing that that wasn’t what John had meant.

John nodded grimly. “Sherlock’s birthday,” he whispered. “Would have been thirty-seven.”

Richard recoiled. “I’m sorry,” he replied. 

“Don’t be. People die everyday. Unlike me, their loved ones move on with their lives.”

Richard laid a hand on John’s shoulder again. “Don’t say that,” he ordered. “You’re doing just fine. Especially considering…” he trailed off. Now why had he gone and said that. That wasn’t his business.

“Considering what,” John prompted.

Richard shook his head. “Nothing,” he replied evasively.

John refused to accept the answer. “Don’t do that. Considering what?”

Richard heaved a sigh. “Considering you loved him.” There. There it was out in the open.  
John nodded, letting his head fall back on the headboard with a dull thud. “Caught that, did you,” he breathed.

Richard moved a step closer. “You don’t exactly have to be a Consulting Detective to see that, John. And you said that I was quick in another life.”

“When did you figure it out,” John wanted to know.

Richard gave him a weak grin. “The day I got out of the hospital. I saw it in your expression in the photographs on the mantel.” 

“That early, eh,” John said with a mirthless scoff.

Richard nodded. “When did you realize it?”

Another scoff. “The day I met him? Sure, I ran from it the whole time that we worked together. I’m not gay. But Sherlock. He was special. We were always unorthodox, so why not? Everybody else sort of assumed it too. Everybody but him, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Richard said on reflex. 

John sat up. “What,” he said.

The room spun just a bit and Richard felt his hand go to his brow. John threw back the covers. “Richard,” he called, alarmed. 

He felt his knees go out from under him, and he collapsed on the bed. Then, as quickly as it had come, the dizziness subsided. His vision cleared to reveal John leaning over him, concern in his eyes. “What do you remember,” he demanded.

In the darkness, Richard could just make out the shape of the gun in John’s left hand. It always seemed to make an appearance whenever Richard remembered something about his past. It was never anything substantial, but he could hardly blame John for his caution. If Richard ever remembered that he was a homicidal psychopath, it could prove difficult for John. Why shouldn’t he be on guard?

“Nothing much. Just… something about Sherlock. Something I said to him.”

John leaned closer to him. “What? What did you say,” he demanded. 

“Hang on,” Richard said, squeezing his eyes shut. He was on a roof. St. Bart’s, he could assume. Sherlock stood menacingly over him.

“ _Everyone you care about will die_ ,” Richard felt his mouth saying.

Sherlock looked alarmed. “ _John?_ ”  
That was all Richard remembered. “I-I threatened him,” he stammered. 

“What about,” John wanted to know, desperation in his voice. 

“I threatened to kill everyone he cared about,” Richard choked out. “I don’t know why, but I did.”

John set his jaw. This is Richard. Not Moriarty. “What exactly was said?”

“I said, ‘Everyone you care about will die.’ And the first thing he said was ‘John.’ That’s all I remember.”

John staggered back to lean against the side table, the gun going slack in his hand.

“So I know he cared about you,” Richard added. As if he needed to clarify.

John nodded, his eyes trained on the ground. 

Richard swallowed heavily, getting to his unsteady feet. He couldn’t bear to remain in the room with John. The emotion emanating from the other man was oppressive, and Richard got the sense that he wasn’t wanted. “I’ll…erm… see you in the morning,” he murmured. “Good night, John.” 

There was no response, so Richard fled.


	4. Chapter 4

On the night Richard's pilot was set to premiere, John wondered if he should invite anyone to watch with them. His first thought was Lestrade, but then... he hadn't spoken to Lestrade much since the day of Sherlock's funeral. Perhaps it was from residual blame, perhaps from John's own despair. At any rate, John didn't know how Greg would feel about celebrating with the man who had once be England's largest criminal mastermind. It was still surreal at times for John, who'd been living with the man who had once been Moriarty for nearly eight months.

So Lestrade was out. Richard largely kept to himself in his private life, based on what John knew. No friends or boyfriends of which to speak. So it just be John and Richard. Mrs. Hudson probably would have joined them if she hadn't had bridge with a number of her friends. Though she'd been wary at first, what with her unshakeable loyalty to Sherlock, the tough little landlady trusted John's judgement. As a result, she came to accept Richard, though never with the affection she'd held for Sherlock and still held for John.

As it was, it was just John, Richard, and a few glasses of celebratory red wine that John had had in the cupboard from an awkward visit from Mycroft last Christmas. To be honest, John was surprised that the elder Holmes hadn't made an appearance with his imposing warnings and stupid umbrella. John knew that Mycroft still watched him; he saw the CCTV cameras move with him every once and a while. The real question was why. Sherlock was gone. Surely there was no other obligation for Mycroft to look after John. After a while, John attested Mycroft's behavior to guilt. It had, after all, been largely his fault that Moriarty had had the tools to destroy Sherlock's reputation, which had ultimately led to his suicide somehow. Of course, John had gotten over his grudges fairly quickly as he reminded himself that the man most at fault was now his flatmate, lost memory or not.

John arrived at the flat with a little under fifteen minutes to spare. Richard lay sprawled on the sofa, a book of Shakespeare's sonnets resting open on his chest. For a moment, John stopped. The position and languid air reminded him so much of Sherlock for a split second. John swallowed heavily, having to forcibly stop himself from mentally adding the height, the curls, and the bloody dressing gown.

Thankfully, the illusion was shattered when Richard noticed his flatmate, grinned, and sat up. "Are you ready, then," he asked, his excitement betrayed in his tone.

John shook his head to clear it before placing the bottle he'd fished out on the table before them, followed by a couple of chipped wine glasses. "You bet, " he replied with a tight lipped smile. "Let me just find the corkscrew."

"Well hurry up," Richard said playfully. "You don't want to miss the beginning."

***  
The pilot was good, entertaining to say the least. Richard was brilliant in his part. Snarky, quick witted, every inch the lawyer. As they watched, the wine flowed. Inhibitions began to ebb away. By the end, Richard was absurdly giggly, and John was shouting at the telly screen. "That's not right," he snapped. "You can't just leave it like that! What happens next?"

Richard shook his head. "You'll have to wait for the next episode like everybody else. I can't tell, even if I wanted to. It's in my contract."

"That's bollocks," John said with mock irritation. "What if it doesn't air? I can't imagine why it wouldn't, but still."

Richard laughed again. "Then maybe, if you're extremely nice to me, I'll tell you who the killer is."

John scoffed. Without thinking, he blurted, "If only Sherlock were here, he'd have it all figured out in a minute."

Immediately, the room went silent. It was the first time that John had mentioned the deceased Consulting Detective with some sort of prompt or provocation. John went a bit pink in the cheeks. "Bloody hell," he whispered before lifting his wine glass to drain it.

Richard took a draw from his own drink before lifting his brown eyes to John's face. "It's all right, you know," he said softly. "You're allowed to talk to him. I know I'm the last person your subconscious wants to talk to about him--" He held up a hand to silence John's denials. "Stop it. I still look like Moriarty even if I don't think like him anymore. It's understandable. But I don't mind if you mention him. Really." He blinked, reaching forward to lay a gentle hand on John's shoulder. "You have to stop trying to hide him away like he never existed. I know it must hurt, but you're even allowed to miss him. That's healthy."

John shook his head. "It's not just _missing him_ , Richard. He's not a bloody puppy that got run over or a parent away on a long business trip. He was my best friend. He... this sounds ridiculous, but he was like a part of me."

"Not ridiculous," Richard said softly.

John continued as if he hadn't heard him. "It was JohnandSherlock. SherlockandJohn. And now that part of me's missing. And the worst part is that he did it on purpose." John swallowed, taking yet another swig of wine. "He jumped off a sodding building and made sure I was watching. Why did he do that? He had to know what it would do to me. He had to. Standing stories below someone I cared so much for, helpless to stop him from jumping."

Richard bit his lip. "I'm sorry, John. I wish... I wish I could remember. So I could at least offer you some closure."

John looked up. "Never _try_ to remember Moriarty. I'll be fine. Just drunk, I think."

Richard's hand still rested comfortingly on John's arm. John kept his gaze fixed on Richard's face. His head spun and, before he realized what he was doing, he leaned forward to press his lips to Richard's.

Richard gasped, his hands fluttering softly. Their mouths sealed together as John forced his tongue between Richard's teeth. 

His lips were soft. After a moment, Richard became accustomed to John's drunken assault on his mouth and he sighed into the kiss, his hands coming to rest more solidly on John's shoulders.

The added pressure on his skin brought John to his senses. He jerked back, separating their lips with a wet pop. Richard's face held a dazed expression for a moment as John leapt to his feet. The ex-army doctor's brain screaming _'mistake'_.

"Sorry," John said, panic in his voice. "I can't. I shouldn't have--" his wine muddled brain still screamed at him.

"It's fine," Richard cut in, tone both startled and tentatively reassuring. "It's _fine_ , John."

"No it's not!" It was decidedly _not_ fine. He had actually allowed himself to forget how he felt about Sherlock in those moments. It had been over two years that he had been grieving for the Consulting Detective, and all it had taken was a little wine and temptation to forget it all. Self-loathing began to bubble under his skin. He was pathetic. So much for loyal Doctor Watson.

Richard looked concerned, his brow wrinkling. "John, really. It's okay. Calm down." His words might have been just a bit more compelling if he hadn't slurred them slightly.

Calm down? How in the bloody hell was he supposed to _calm down_? He had to get out of the sitting room. He had to think. Without another word, he made for his room, stopping short as he remembered that it had once been Sherlock's. He couldn't go in there. Not when he had just betrayed Sherlock this way. Thus, he found himself turning for the door, sliding his shoes on as he did so.

Richard winced slightly as the door slammed behind John. The telly still blared advertisements. Perturbed, Richard lifted the remote and clicked it off. The contents of his belly sloshed as he rose and stumbled his way up the stairs.

He lay awake in his bed. Things were going to change now. He could feel it. Richard fell into a fitful sleep with that thought clear on his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short (I wrote it in an hour in class...). Wicked Long chapter to follow and make up for the gimpy one. More like a transition chapter anyway. :P Thanks for all your comments and kudos! I love to hear from people!

“Did you know about this?" 

“I’m a busy man. I know a lot of things. I’m afraid you’ll need to be a bit more specific.”

“Don’t play the fool, Mycroft. It’s a terrible role for you, as you and I both know that it’s utter bollocks.” A newspaper slapped on Mycroft Holmes’s desk. The entertainment section. How utterly dull. The headline read: **Critics Rave Over New Crime Dramedy**. The accompanying image bore an unfortunately familiar face with a equally familiar moniker. Richard Brook.

“Ah. That.”

“Yes. _‘That.’_ ” 

Mycroft nodded. “I’ve been aware of the situation for quite some time now. I deemed it low risk. The man formerly know as James Moriarty suffers from acute amnesia. He has no recollection of who he was or what he had done. In fact, he’s not given any signs of a relapse into cognition in the entirety of the eight months that he has been out of the hospital. Though he is under near constant medical supervision.” 

“Low risk. Low bloody risk! Do you have no concept of what Jim Moriarty is? He’s a master at deception. He could be playing at amnesia. In fact, it’s likely. He fooled me. What’s to stop him from fooling everyone else?”

Mycroft shrugged. “His new flatmate has a knack for reading people. They’ve been living on close range for quite some time now.” 

“His new flatmate? Who? Who did you deem _qualified_ to house a dangerous madman?”

“This man’s dealt with madmen before. In fact, I think you're quite close to him.” 

There was a long silence. “John.” 

“I, myself, was surprised with the valiant Dr. Watson didn’t murder Richard Brook upon first contact with him.” 

“You. Are. Insane. Putting John in danger with the man around whom this entire operation has revolved. Three bloody years I have worked!” 

Mycroft nodded, remaining calm in the face of his companion’s outburst. “Yes. You have worked, and I have kept watch, just as I promised I would.” 

“I’m going to Baker Street.” 

“Are you sure that’s such a good idea? Three years can be a long time. And you do look so different now. Thinner. And the hair, of course.” 

“Are you suggesting that he won’t know me on sight?” 

Mycroft shrugged. “He might not want to.” 

“I’ll take that chance.” 

After a moment, Mycroft sighed. “As you wish, brother.” 

***  
John worked mechanically through his shift at the surgery, his mind filled with thoughts of other things. He had to speak to Richard. He had to set this straight. He’d been drunk and emotional. Nothing more. His mind raced. What must his flatmate have thought, after John panicked and ran away? It couldn’t have been anything good. But they’d always been platonic. Sure, John had come to feel a certain friendly affection for Richard, but nothing near what he’d felt for Sherlock. 

On the Tube ride home, he determined that he would simply sit Richard down and talk with him. The man was a logical thinking adult, and it wasn’t as if John had made any other advances. Not to mention, they lived well together and Richard understood about Sherlock. Hell, John hadn’t even had a date for three years. Not since before Sherlock. All that had gotten him through were desperate wanks to whispered pleas and imagined words of sweet intent. Richard would understand. He just would.

When John reached Baker Street, he found it odd the door from the street was unlocked. Normally Mrs. Hudson kept it bolted, what with their experiences with Sherlock’s former enemies. “Richard,” he called from the bottom of the stairs. 

There was a strangled cry from upstairs, and John found himself running. The door to the flat was ajar, and John could make out the toppled chairs and other signs of apparent struggle. He burst into the sitting room to find Richard grappling with a much taller man. The other man had clearly surprised his flatmate, as he definitely had the upper hand, and Richard certainly wasn’t physically inept.

“John,” Richard gasped around the tall man’s fingers, which were wrapped firmly around his windpipe.

John didn’t think, he merely reacted, lunging at the intruder with full force and knocking him to the side. The two men toppled, the other man’s head hitting the floor hard. John administered a hard punch to the man’s jaw and had cocked his arm back for another when he registered Richard’s arms around him, dragging him back. “Stop,” his flatmate cried.

“What the hell, Richard,” John demanded. “The arsehole was attacking you. He broke into our flat. Why the flying fuck are you protecting him?”

“Look at him, John,” Richard rasped, still recovering from his assault. “I mean really. Look.”

John’s eyes cleared of the red hot rage with which he had been blinded. He was a tall man, still holding his cheek from where John had struck him. The hair was short, a reddish brown. Though not his natural color judging by the black roots at the very base of his scalp.

It was the eyes. Silver grey. John had only seen eyes like that on one person. His breath came fast. But no. It couldn’t be. He was seeing things. This wasn’t right. No, no, no.

“Hello, John.”

Of their own accord, John’s eyes rolled back and he slumped against Richard’s still restraining grip.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here you are, a longer chapter. At least, I think it's longer. Thank you all for your continued support of this fiction. I'm loving your comments and praise. We've still got a while to go, so hang in there!

Moments later, when John came to, he was situated on the sofa. He blinked with a tiny groan, his eyes coming to focus on Sherlock Holmes, who knelt with an anxious expression at the side of the couch. He shook his head, the shock still coursing through him as he tried to calm his brain.

Richard sat in John’s chair, watching Sherlock with a wary expression. There were red impressions around his pale throat where Sherlock had choked him. The bruises were so unsettling to John that he had to force his eyes away.

Sherlock’s eyes were bluer than he remembered. Though not so much so that he hadn't recognized them on sight. It wasn't just the color. It had been the intensity in the gaze more than the shade. John blinked. His cheekbones were more pronounced. Without thinking, John reached up to prod one gently. “Your eyes,” he said slowly.

Sherlock nodded. “Contact lenses.”

John’s head hurt. So blue. Really not the silver he knew at all. How he managed to...? He shook his head. “Why?”

“I’ve been disguising myself everyday for—“

John shook his head. “No. Why are you here? _How_ are you?”

Sherlock gave a sidelong glance to Richard before replying, “I missed you.”

John was coming back to his senses. He sat up, rather abruptly, and his head spun. He allowed it to slump back onto the back of the couch while he waited for the world to still. When it did, he returned with more venom than he had intended. “ _You_ missed _me_? What about all the bloody days when I missed you, you wankarse? Was this all some bloody joke?”

Sherlock shook his head emphatically. “No, John,” he breathed. “Of course not.”

“Then what the fuck is it? And if you say anything along the lines of ‘it was an experiment’ or ‘it’s for a case,’ I will cheerfully blow your bloody brains out.” John took several deep breaths, attempting to keep control of his rage. His nostrils flared as he waited for Sherlock’s reply.

“I did it to protect you,” Sherlock said quietly. 

“Protect me,” John repeated. “How the bloody hell were you _protecting_ me?”

The detective swallowed, sending another glance in Richard’s direction. “Perhaps now isn’t the best time to discuss this.”

“Isn’t it? I waited for three sodding years, you twat. I think now is a perfect time.”

“John,” Sherlock said.

It clicked in John’s mind following the pointed look Sherlock gave him. “Is this about Richard? You’re not going to tell me why I had to watch you die, had to bury you, because my flatmate’s in the room?”

Sherlock scoffed, getting to his feet. “Don’t be an idiot, John.”

Incensed, John sat up, still not trusting his legs to support him. “Oh, I’m sorry. We can’t all be thinking machines like the great Sherlock bloody Holmes. But I damn well have the capacity to understand that I deserve an explanation for having to mourn you when you weren’t fucking dead! Richard or no Richard.”

Sherlock whirled on him. “Well we both know it’s not as simple as ‘Richard or no Richard.’ Perhaps you’d care to explain to me why you replaced me with the most dangerous man in England, perhaps the world. And here I thought you were more intelligent than the average person.”

“You fuck,” John shouted. “Don’t pretend you understand anything that’s going on in my life right now. You have been absent. Gone. _Dead_. You know nothing about me anymore.”

“I know that Jim Moriarty is sitting in your bloody chair, and you aren’t batting an eyelash.”

Richard shot up. “That’s a damned lie,” he bellowed.

Sherlock’s head snapped to the other man, surprised. “Excuse me,” he demanded.

Richard advanced on Sherlock, trembling with rage all his own. “My name is Richard Brook. I am _not_ Moriarty.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, Mycroft mentioned your ‘amnesia.’ All rather convenient isn’t it? You wake up and suddenly don’t remember you’re a manipulative murderer.”

“Stop it,” Richard barked. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He scoffed. “Don’t I? Isn’t it time we dropped the act, Moriarty? I’m alive, there’s no need to muck around with my flatmate.”

“Get out, Sherlock,” came a voice behind him. John had finally risen from his perch on the couch.

“…John?”

“We… we can talk about this later, Sherlock. But right now, I think you should go.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “But this is our flat.”

“ _Was_ our flat. It was our flat. But Sherlock, as far as I knew you were dead.”

Sherlock face was stricken for a brief moment before he returned it to its usual impassive mask. “Very well, John,” he said simply. 

“Text me tomorrow, if you want,” John called after him.

Sherlock said nothing as he continued stiffly out the door. John listened for the slam of the front door before his legs stopped wanting to hold him once again. “Bloody hell,” he groaned, sinking to the floor.

Richard still stood in the middle of the room, watching John collapse in on himself. He took several deep breaths before moving to join John on the floor. He could put his own irritation and indignation aside to comfort his flatmate. John needed it. 

“John,” he ventured slowly, careful not to touch the other man, whose eyes were fixed dead ahead. 

“Bloody hell, bloody hell,” John muttered again.

Richard waited, watching John with a wary gaze until he decided whether or not he wanted to talk. 

After a moment, John’s shoulders began to shake, his head still hidden between his knees. Richard placed a tentative hand on John’s shoulder, withdrawing it suddenly when he realized that John wasn’t crying; he was laughing. Richard raised a confused and worried brow as the disconcerting giggles filled the room.

“Are you all right, John,” Richard demanded, voice a little frantic.

John shook his head. “Fine,” he gave another snicker. “Just realizing that I’m a total fool.”

Richard nodded slowly. “Right… and why is that funny?”

John looked up at Richard again. “Well, because Sherlock was right all along.” He held his hands up, as if surrendering. “I’m an idiot.” More laughter.

Richard shook his head. “No, John. You’re not an idiot.”

“No, I am. I really _really_ am. Somehow I managed to convince myself that Sherlock Holmes might have loved me too. How ridiculous is that?”

“Stop this, John. You’re in shock, I think. You don’t know what you’re saying. Sherlock does love you.”

“No,” John said, voice suddenly cold. “No, he doesn’t. He never did. Only a sick and twisted man would do what Sherlock did to me. Make me care. Let me love him. Pretend to fucking suicide. And then show up here after three years and attack my flatmate, hoping I’d welcome him back with open arms.”

Richard shook his head again, refusing to let John believe that. “There’s an explanation. There has to be.” The memory he had of Sherlock told him that John was wrong. That Sherlock need the army doctor just as much as he needed the detective. 

Not to mention, Richard had a heavy feeling that whatever Sherlock’s explanation was, it was Moriarty’s fault.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LOOOONG chapter to make up for my lack of updates. And SEXYTIMES!!! The rating is going up darlings. Enjoy JohnLock makeup sex.
> 
> *So this updated without me being finished... crap... new and completed chapter up now.

The next time Sherlock Holmes came round to 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson answered the door. And promptly burst into tears. John hadn't thought to inform the older woman of the detective's return. He'd been too bloody confused himself. 

Sherlock wasn't a hundred percent sure that he knew how to react to such a display. What he did know, however, was that Mrs. Hudson had been sort of a mother figure to him since he'd taken up residence in her flat. She deserved the right to cry and cling to him, but now really wasn't the time for it. He had come for one reason: to make John see. 

Before the whole debacle had started, before Sherlock had needed to make the ultimate sacrifice to save his friends, he would have surely said that he had the most important aspects of his life figured out. He would have told anyone who asked that his fellow humans were idiots, that he was married to his work, that he was above human _sentiment_.

He would have been wrong.

In the years away from England--longer than he had ever spent away from his home--Sherlock had learned a thing or two. He'd learned how much pressure to apply to a butterfly knife if you wanted to penetrate a breastbone to deliver a fatal wound. He'd learned how to use a grappling hook to scale the side of a building several stories up and then use said grappling hook as a weapon to assassinate another human being. He'd learned bargaining, bribing, murder, poverty, Czech, and so much more. However, the most important thing he had learned was that alone didn't protect him. It destroyed him. Alone might have been all he had before that fateful January 29th four years ago, but now all it did was mock him and hurt him and threaten to drive him bloody insane. In short, Sherlock Holmes had learned that he needed people. And by people, he meant that he needed John Hamish Watson.

So, carefully, Sherlock extracted himself from Mrs. Hudson, promising that he would be over for tea as soon as he was able, and headed slowly up the stairs. His mind raced, as it always did. What if John were to kick him out again? What if he wouldn't listen? Sherlock's entire plan for the day centered around his best friend's patience. If he was overestimating it, he might come trudging down the stairs again having made no progress. He couldn't return to Mycroft as he had yesterday. Claiming that John's surprise had overwhelmed him would likely only work once on the elder Holmes, if it had worked at all.

Sherlock still had his key should he need it. However, he hoped as he knocked lightly on the wooden door that John would at least open it for him.

He was in luck it seemed. "Sherlock," the soft familiar voice questioned through the wood.

"Yes, John," Sherlock said. "Who else would it be?"

The door opened to reveal a tired looking John Watson. A John Watson who hadn't slept at all the night before and who had come to several conclusions in his state of insomnia. Sherlock's eyes passed over him, affirming this to him. The look of resolve in his shadowed eyes, the fact that he hadn't changed out of his pajamas, the knowledge that he hadn't gone into work today. From the looks of him, he hadn't even allowed himself the comfort of a caffeinated beverage to ease his way. No, this was a man that would be undistracted from the outside world as he was left to contemplate something as impossible as a best friend back from the dead.

"After what happened yesterday," John said, "anything's possible. I wouldn't have been surprised if the bloody Queen herself had shown up with a spot of tea."

"I'm nearly certain that the Queen has other duties," Sherlock responded.

John sighed. "What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

Pain jolted through him. _Because you're my best friend. Where else would you imagine I'd go? Because I need you._ He said none of that, of course. Instead he replied with, "Can I come in, John. We need to talk."

John nodded. "Yeah, I think we do." He stepped aside, allowing just enough room for Sherlock to squeeze by him. Their chests brushed as he did so, and Sherlock noticed the stiffening from John. He decided that it would not be a thing upon which he should comment.

He wandered into the sitting room still wearing his coat. His chair, he noted, looked undisturbed. For how long he couldn't say. He'd need to more closely examine the cumulation of dust. He looked to John. "May I," he asked. He normally would never have asked. He would have simply plopped himself into the chair without a second thought. But, after what John had said about 221B no longer belonging to Sherlock, he would be careful. He didn't need John any more agitated than he already was.

John stared at Sherlock. He'd not allowed anyone to sit in that chair for three years. And now, here was the reason for it, asking if he could occupy that space again. It was all so... surreal.

"Yes, fine," John whispered. "Tea?"

Sherlock took the seat, stirring up the dust. "No," he replied. "Thank you."

John nodded, before padding into the kitchen. He was going to have some bloody tea, even if he had to keep Sherlock waiting while he made it.

He didn't. To his surprise,Sherlock shucked his coat and followed John into the kitchen rather than remaining the chair.

It was all so domestic to Sherlock. But he had missed it more and more as his time away grew. Watching John's hands, Sherlock noticed that the left one trembled slightly. The detective swallowed, allowing his gaze to fall to John pajama clad legs. He favored his right leg. So John, brave Soldier John, had begun to regress. Sherlock wondered how long he'd been gone before that had started. 

"What did you want to talk about, Sherlock," John said suddenly, nearly startling Sherlock if one could believe it. "Because I know exactly what I want to discuss with you, but I reckon that I should give you the chance to go first."

Sherlock blinked. "I suspect that the things you wish to discuss are on parr with what I need to say. If you have questions, John, ask them."

When he said that, Sherlock expected to hear accusations. _Why did you leave me? How could you do it? Didn't it cross your mind to let me know?_ Instead, what Sherlock got floored him. "Are you expecting to move back to Baker Street," John wanted to know.

Sherlock shook his head. Move back? Of all the questions John could have thrown at him, he selected that one? Sherlock took a breath. "I suppose I am, or I was until I heard that you'd acquired a new flatmate."

John nodded. "Funny how that works," he said coolly. "People moving on and all. Speaking of Richard, he'll be home at seven. Which means you'll be gone by six-forty five."

Sherlock nodded. It had only just turned two. Plenty of time to get what he needed out. "Any other questions," he wanted to know.

John added milk to his tea and took a sip of it before turning to Sherlock. "Did you want your things? I don't think you living here is going to work. I'm not going to kick Richard out simply because you decided to turn up again."

That stung. Sherlock had to keep back a flinch. John's questions were cool, businesslike. Had he truly moved onto the point where Sherlock was merely a nuisance in John's life? Sherlock swallowed hard. He certainly hadn't been expecting that. Maybe he'd been selfish, but he'd thought John would want him back. Or at least be more emotionally affected than _this_. "I suppose it would make sense to retrieve it all. I must admit that I'm not equipped to do so today."

"You can come get it all later in the week. Should definitely clear out some room in the flat."

Sherlock nodded, saying nothing, his silence prompting John onto the next question. "Are you going to take back up with the work?"

"Yes," Sherlock said instantly. There had never been a question of it. The work was what Sherlock thrived upon. "Of course, I'll need an assistant..."

"Don't," John said suddenly.

Sherlock blinked. "Don't what?"

John looked at him. "Don't talk about how you'll be needing someone to help you. As if you expect me to volunteer like I did before. Things are different now, Sherlock. I'm not just going to leap at the chance to be your blogger again."

"I wasn't expecting you to," Sherlock said softly. He'd been hoping John would do just that, but no, he hadn't thought it would be likely. "I am quite capable of deducing that you don't wish to continue contact with me."

"Who said that," John asked, setting his tea down.

Sherlock fought back a look of confusion. "I'm afraid I don't understand. You are asking me when I want to retrieve my things, as we are no longer flatmates, you are currently living with the man who brought about my "death," and you've just informed me that you don't want to work with me anymore. Have I wrongly concluded that you no longer wish to associate with me?" Never in his life has Sherlock more wanted to be wrong.

"No. I mean, yes. Of course I want to know you, Sherlock. Don't be ridiculous. I'm just..." he trailed off, searching for the right words. "I'm just a bit... I don't know. I want to be angry with you. But God, I missed you so bloody much, you sod. And then you come in here looking all different and you say you missed me. But then you threaten to kill my bloody flatmate--"

Sherlock cut in. "I did it for you," he said. "I did all of this for you."

John shook his head, frustrated. "Yes, you keep saying that, but you've yet to explain exactly _how_ it was all for me."

"Moriarty was going to kill you," Sherlock said bluntly. 

John stopped whatever it was he was about to say. "What?"

"If I didn't jump that day. If I didn't make you believe that I'd died, Moriarty was going to order three snipers to kill Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you. I couldn't let that happen. And I knew that he'd try something like it. I knew that he'd kill everyone I cared about. But he overlooked one person. Just as I always did."

John furrowed his brow for a moment, before it became clear. "Molly."

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. She and I devised a plan to make it seem as though I'd committed suicide. That way I could take down Moriarty's empire and come back. But it took far longer than I anticipated, and when I did come back, you were living with the very man that drove me away from England. From the work. From you."

"But, Sherlock, he really doesn't remember--"

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock said coldly. "Do you really think it matters that he doesn't remember who he is? That man once threatened to take your life. He threatened it more than once. Then I find that he got to have you when I couldn't. When I was away trying to make you safe--"

"You could have taken me along," John challenged. 

"No," Sherlock replied coldly. "I really couldn't. You have no concept of what I had to become. Of what I had to do."

"Are you saying that I couldn't have handled it," John demanded. "I was a bloody soldier, for God's sake."

"You shouldn't have to _handle it_ ," Sherlock said. "And that's why I left you. I couldn't let you endanger yourself nearly every day because of me. I just couldn't."

"Why the bloody hell not? Never stopped you before."

"I just couldn't! Without you, I'd go back to how I was. I couldn't go back to being the sociopath. The cool calculator. I couldn't go back to being alone."

"You said alone protects you."

" _You_ protect me. Far better than alone ever did."

He lowered his eyes having lost his composure. He hadn't come here for the emotional undertaking it was turning out to be.

John furrowed his brow. This was so... out of character for Sherlock. Sherlock, who didn't feel attached to other people. Sherlock, who was married to his work. "Now I'm confused," he admitted.

Sherlock kept his gaze down. "Why," he asked softly.

"Because you're supposed to be this sort of asexual, sociopathic _being_ that's above all of this... You hate sentiment. You always said that."

Sherlock looked up. "Asexual. I never said that. Sociopath. Hater of sentiment. But I never said asexual."

John raised an eyebrow. "You're 'married to your work,' remember? That doesn't read as a bloke keen on any sort of romantic attachments. I just sort of assumed."

Sherlock gave a tiny grin, understanding dawning on him. "John. I'm _not_ asexual."

Not. Had John heard that right? After all this time, Sherlock _wasn't_ asexual? John's head spun, the information certainly news to him. "Wait... then what are you?"

The question sounded like one a smile child would ask. Sherlock couldn't bite back the resulting laugh. He took a step around the kitchen island to stand in front of John. He knew what John was truly asking. However, just telling him would be too easy. Instead, he placed his hands on either side of John on the counter and leaned in close. He wasn't sure how it would be received, but Sherlock had never been one to respect personal space. "I'm a Consulting Detective, John," he said softly.

John stiffened. He was used to Sherlock getting too close to him. But the look in his eyes, the predatory intensity of his stare, was very different. "I know that, you sod," he said weakly, doing his best to keep his breathing steady and his eyes clear.

Sherlock pushed just a little bit closer. "Then. Why. Ask?"

John straightened up a bit taller. He didn't know what Sherlock was playing at, but John wasn't about to have his knees go weak. "You're the detective. Why don't you tell me?"

Sherlock grinned fully, like a cat who had gotten the cream. This was quite a turn. He had not expected this in the least. Of course, now it made sense that John had been so cold when he had come back. He had been more hurt than Sherlock could have imagined--well, he _had_ imagined it in the darkest of nights on his quest to end Moriarty's vast empire, but had dismissed it. John was straight after all. Supposedly. 

Suddenly, Sherlock just wanted John to make the move. Having Sherlock do it would so predictable. John always simply followed his whims, even if he said he didn't. But if John were to confirm what Sherlock was thinking, that would be interesting. And there was a tiny part of Sherlock underneath his arrogant confidence that John felt the same as he did that needed it to be confirmed. _Please, John_ , it begged. "I think this is one case _you_ could just as easily solve for me."

That was it. John was done with this game. Here was Sherlock, pushed close to him, his face just inches from John's. John didn't know what the bloody hell was going on, but he damn well deserved this. He deserved the right to act upon the impulse eating at the back of his mind. He'd waited, hadn't he? Against impossibility, against grief, against opportunity with Richard. John had waited, and now it was time to reap the benefits. So the doctor shot a hand out to grasp at Sherlock's too short hair, his blue eyes wide as he searched out familiar silver, and he yanked the detective down to him to press lips against lips with a tiny gasp.  
Sherlock stiffened, mildly surprised at the lack of prelude. He'd done this with only one other person before, and that had been years ago. He and the other boy, Victor, had only been together a few months. Nothing had come of it. When Victor had kissed him for the first time, it was nothing like this.

Almost instantly, John's other hand came to rest low on Sherlock's hip. Sherlock remained firmly in place, hands on the counter, as John kissed him. He was a quick study, but he'd need a moment to catalogue.

Unfortunately, John took this brief moment to mean that Sherlock was uninterested. He pulled back, extracting his hands and pushing his way out from the cage of Sherlock's arms and the island. "Sorry about that," he muttered. "I don't even... you were too bloody close to me and--" 

Sherlock seized John's arm and jerked him back against his chest, upending the tea cup John had stowed on the table with the force of their bodies rocking the counter as they hit it again. Neither of the men noticed, as Sherlock had pushed his lips to John's again quite forcefully, giving a tiny whimper as John caught his arms around Sherlock's neck. 

The kiss came more easily this time, Sherlock learning to simply let John lead. Their lips fitted together as if they had been crafted for this very purpose. When John nipped at Sherlock's lower lip, the detective gave a low moan, his mouth opening slightly.

John took this as an invitation and pressed closer to deepen the kiss, letting his tongue push into the dark warmth of Sherlock's mouth. The detective met him full force, the two muscles tangling around and under each other as Sherlock catalogued the taste of John--his tea, his toothpaste, the unique sensation of simply John.

After several moments, they pulled apart. Sherlock's breath came in gasps and the doctor's face was flushed. "John, I--"

"Don't say anything just yet," John said. "Just... let me take you to bed, Sherlock. Please."

Sherlock met the other man's eyes. "But I... thought we were talking," he said, his voice small.

John pushed close. "Please," he said again.

The Consulting Detective took a breath and nodded stiffly.

Sherlock was surprised when John did not lead him upstairs, but to the room he had once occupied. "I took over your room when you... were away," John explained quickly before slamming the door closed. He wasn't expecting visitors, and Richard wouldn't be home for several hours, but caution was never a bad idea. Plus, with the door closed, John could slam the taller man against it. As their lips met yet again, John's fingers moved over the aubergine silk hugging his friend's body. Of course it would be _that_ shirt, the shirt Sherlock had 'died' wearing. The shirt that used to drive John absolutely insane.

He had it open in moments, and his fingers danced over the pale flesh beneath it. Sherlock shivered at John's ministrations, before coming to his senses long enough to slide the shirt from his arms and seize the thin cotton of the gray pajama shirt John wore. Their mouths separated as Sherlock wrenched it over John's head and threw it haphazardly to the floor.

John responded by yanking Sherlock away from the door to shove him roughly towards the bed in the center of the room. The mattress squeaked helplessly as he joined Sherlock, his hands going to the now seated detective's belt. "You've no idea how I've thought of this Sherlock. How _long_ I've thought of this," he said frantically as he slipped his hands into the waistband of Sherlock trousers to shimmy them down his thin hips. 

As John undressed him, Sherlock's breathing accelerated. His brain stuttered when John's hand brushed over his pants on his journey to remove Sherlock's trousers, and he helplessly gasped "how long, John," in a feverish whisper.

John looked up at him, surprised by the tone of his voice. He leaned in close. "Since before you jumped," he said plainly, before latching onto a spot on Sherlock's neck, just below his ear.

Sherlock's hand flew to nest its fingers in John's hair as he moaned. His hips bucked up slightly as John sucked on the pale flesh beneath his lips. "John, I--" he was cut off by John's hand. More specifically a hand that plunged into the waistband of his pants to brush against stirring flesh beneath. His hips strained for more. "God."

The combination of John's hand and lips threatened to tear Sherlock apart. He shivered. "I meant it when I said I missed you," he moaned as John removed the hand to rest on the sheets as he brought his lips to the taller man's collarbone. 

John hummed against Sherlock's neck before moving his mouth lower, laying wet kisses on Sherlock's sternum. 

"I did," Sherlock continued, shuddering. "Every day. At first I missed your prattling on about my brilliance and--" he choked to a stop when John placed his mouth over the pink bud of his left nipple. With a moan, he arched into the doctor's mouth. But he couldn't stop his mouth. It continued to form words regardless of what was happening below.

"Then I missed specific things about you. That black coat with the peculiar patches, to start. To be quite honest, I never stopped thinking about you. The way you lick your lips when you're nervous was an object of my, oh God, attentions for some time," he said, his abdominal muscle quivering under John.

"Then, hnng, it was the way the sun gleamed off your hair, and how your hand never trembled on cases." John grasped the cotton fabric of Sherlock's pants, sliding them off to join the black trousers. Sherlock had deduced his intentions when he had reached Sherlock's abdomen, so rather than quieting, he merely spoke more quickly, the words tumbling out.

"I especially missed the jumpers. The cotton striped one, and that hideous oatmeal colored one. You really should get new ones. For God's sake, how old are the ones you have? And then I thought that I would bring you one from all the places I went, so I--Oh John. Oh God, John."

His hips bucked violently against John's mouth as he passed his tongue over the head of Sherlock's weeping cock. Sherlock's fingers tangled in the sheets on the bed as he did his best not to repeat the movement. His chest threatened to explode as he gasped for air, and he felt his erection straining for more of that hot wetness. "So," he gasped, needing to concentrate on something, anything, other than John's mouth. "I have so many now. I don't know if they'll, hm, fit you. I deduced your size from what I remembered of your body, so I could have, ah, been off."

John sank lower on Sherlock's cock, working his tongue over the glans and the straining vein on the underside. He listened to Sherlock's babble and grinned. Even in bed the man couldn't shut up. John wanted to see if he could bring him to the point of silence. He hollowed his cheeks. 

Still Sherlock talked. "Unfortunately, fuck, I couldn't get one in Lithuania. God dammit! Ah, I nearly got stranded there." The coil that had begun to form in Sherlock's belly was winding tighter and tighter. Speaking was growing ever more difficult as John sucked him. Sherlock's knees had long since drawn up and splayed wide. "It was only thanks to, hnng John, Mycroft that I escaped at all. Then I c-came," he growled as his body told him how close he was. John's fingers had moved to cradle the heavy testicles begging for his attention. "I came," he tried again before his teeth caught his lower lip. After a shallow breath, he managed to croak, "home. John, I'm close. Oh God, I'm nearly there."

His long fingers caught at John's hair and yanked him up off of his cock with an obscene pop. John looked at him in surprise as his erection fell back against his belly. Sherlock merely grasped at John's neck and pulled him up to meet his lips. Sherlock could taste the salty flavor of himself in John's mouth as he did his best to clumsily divest John of the pajama bottoms he still wore. He gave a sob of relief when he found that the shorter man had forgone pants of his own.

Their positioning had John resting between Sherlock's knees. So much the better. He was not about to do this without John. He couldn't. Sherlock bucked his hips up, making John groan deep in his throat as their erections slid together. The movement was aided by the thin sheen of sweat on Sherlock that had formed with John's exploration of his body.

"I came home with the realization," thrust. Another moan. "That I no longer wished to be without you. Ah," his hips bucked again, John meeting him this time as he ground down. "Then to find you here, living with the very man I was fighting against."

"Shit, Sherlock," John moaned. "Do you ever stop talking?" With that, the shorter man moved his hand to his mouth to pass his tongue over his palm. He brought it down to encircle both cocks as they slid against each other.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock cried out as he thrust into John's strong fingers.

"Shhh," John said, gritting his teeth.

Sherlock's hands splayed against John's slick back as he spoke. "No, mm, I mean, ah, for leaving you." Each clause came out in a sob. "I'm sorry, hnng, for that."

John met his eyes. The tension was threatening to snap in Sherlock, and he could see from the dilation in John's pupils that he would soon follow. Sherlock's chest heaved as he locked their gazes. "Just don't do it again," John moaned before seizing Sherlock's lips desperately. 

Sherlock came with a loud cry against John's lips, slicking both cocks and John's working hand. A few particularly lubricated pumps later, John fell after him.

When they had finished, the only sounds in the room were the frantic gasps that signified elusive breath being found again. John sat up to wipe his soiled hand on Sherlock's discarded shirt before pulling the detective close to him. Sherlock slotted his head under John's chin.

"I mean it," John said. "Don't you dare do it again."

Sherlock shook his head. "No."

"No matter how much you want to keep me safe," John added. "Promise me that I won't ever have to mourn you again."

"I can't," Sherlock reminded him. "We have a dangerous job."

John thought for a moment. "All right. But you'd better not just go off again. Next time you die, you'd better stay dead."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Done," he said against John's neck.

"Good," John said. "And Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"I... I love you." The vulnerability was not hard to make out in the ex-army doctor's voice.

Sherlock nodded. "I love you, too, John. I promise."

Nothing more was said as the two drifted off.

***  
Several hours later, Richard returned, a bag of good whiskey in his hand. He suspected that John might need a little liquid comfort after the state Richard had seen him in that morning. 

“John,” he called softly. “John, I’m home.”

There was no reply. John hadn’t gone out. His coat was still there.

Puzzled, Richard furrowed his brow and moved to the door of John’s bedroom. He gave a soft knock. “John, are you in there,” he said in an Irish whisper.

Still nothing. Taking a breath, Richard wrapped his hand around the door knob, turning it gently to peer in through the crack in the door. 

As Richard had suspected, the reason John didn’t answer was that he was fast asleep. However, his flatmate hadn’t thought to mention that he be having company in the form a thoroughly debauched and sleeping Sherlock Holmes.

Before he could be caught and accused of being a peeping Tom, Richard let the door close with a click. It was really lucky that he was alone. There was no reason to hide his stupid grin as he made his way into the kitchen. The grin only widened at the connotations of the upset teacup on the counter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another good long one for you. A tiny bit of angst, a tiny bit of performance anxiety, and I like to think a bit of gigglies...
> 
> Enjoy.

When John woke later than evening, he was surprised to find Sherlock awake--well not exactly _surprised_ , Sherlock had never been known to be much of a sleeper. What did surprise him was the state in which John found Sherlock: fully clothed, folded to the very side of the bed, hands pressed under his chin almost as if he was praying. Sitting up, the duvet slipping down his still bare chest, John cocked his head. "Sher," he said softly.

Sherlock did not turn his head. "Your flatmate is home. Judging by the range of movement, I would reckon for about several hours now."

John furrowed his brow. "Richard. _That's_ the first thing you're going to bring up after I wake up from a shag with you?" He gave a tiny scoff.

The detective turned his head slightly. "What would be customary for me to say," he demanded. "Forgive me, John. I am not gifted with 'social conventions,' particularly not in this area."

John went quiet. "I know that."

Sherlock cocked a brow. "You do?"

The other man nodded. "I'd assumed you hadn't much experience with this sort of thing."

"None," Sherlock said abruptly.

"Sorry?"

"I'd none," Sherlock repeated, voice softer now.

John swallowed. Some part of him had known that Sherlock was a virgin. He had assumed him asexual, for God's sake. It hadn't seemed like a problem, however, several hours ago. A thought crossing his mind, John sat up a little taller and turned to the other man. "Are you all right with this. What happened?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course I am, John. You don't need to coddle me like a blushing bride. I just--" He clamped his mouth shut, averting his eyes slightly.

The sight of the detective cutting himself off was disconcerting at best. He always said exactly what he thought when he thought it. John was beginning to descend into panic mode. "What? You just what, Sherlock?"

"I'd thought today would go a bit differently. I hadn't anticipated a sexual encounter. In fact, it was the last thing on my mind when I came here." He rose from the bed abruptly. "I'd anticipated cool indifference, rage, _tears_ even. But this..." he closed his eyes and took a breath. "I hadn't anticipated this."

John threw back the covers and rose to retrieve his crumpled pajama bottoms. Pulling them on, he retorted, "Do you think I did? Does the word 'asexual' ring a bell to you at all? And if you didn't want to sleep with me, you could have--"

"No, no, no, you are not _listening_ ," Sherlock snapped, growing frustrated. "Of course I wanted it. You've no idea how often I'd--" He shook his head. "That is beside the point. What I'm saying is that I hadn't _anticipated_ it." He nearly snarled the last words.

John was confused. He hadn't anticipated this hostility when he awoke. In truth, he hadn't thought much about what he would get in the aftermath, but had at least thought it would be a bit less brutal than this. "All right, so you didn't 'anticipate it,'" he snapped back, air quoting Sherlock in a mocking manner. "Who bloody cares? It happened and it was fine--" he stopped, his mind dwelling. His body visibly deflated. "It was fine, wasn't it," he croaked.

Sherlock was pacing throughout John's rant. When he stopped, Sherlock stood stock still. _He couldn't think..._ "John," Sherlock said, approaching the army doctor. "Your performance is not under question. At all." He tried to communicate his sincerity in his eyes. Why wasn't John seeing what he meant? Why didn't he understand when he usually was so quick to realize what Sherlock was feeling? "Mine, however, was probably questionable at best. You must understand that, had I had time to plan, I could have perfected the conditions--"

He was cut off by the sounds of John's laughter. _Laughter_. He was laughing at Sherlock. Sherlock, who was admitting to an insecurity that had been plaguing him since he woke up. How could John be so insensitive? Generally, it was _Sherlock_ who was known for that.

He must have looked wounded, as John quieted his infuriating giggles. "You think that I was disappointed?" He shook his head. "You're supposed to be this genius. Look at me! Do I look like a regret what went on?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You don't understand. I had wanted it to go differently. My apology, for example. A frantic whisper in the throes of passion? I've never heard of something more meaningless. Do you know how often I've regretted what I had to do to you? What I had to do to what we used to be? I had planned _exactly_ what I would say. And when, _if_ , we did make love, it was meant to be less like frantic teenagers groping at one another after a fight. I wanted--"

"You wanted it to be a bit more thought out," John finished for him. "Of course." He approached the flustered detective and seized his clamped hands. "Your brain never stops for a second, does it," he asked softly. "I bet you had the whole thing mapped out."

"I had considered the encounter before," Sherlock admitted. 

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, it was fine. It's all fine. Better than fine. Fan-bloody-tastic. I swear."

Sherlock was about to reply, when there was a timid knocking at the door. "John," came the tentative voice of his flatmate. John looked up at Sherlock, a question in his eyes. The detective shrugged.

Taking a deep breath, John went to the door and pulled it open. Richard stood in the doorway, struggling to keep his eyes off of John's bare chest. Of course, he had seen it before, when John had finished showering or something comparable. This, however, felt a bit different. The knowledge that the other man was coming out of his room after shagging the man that he had admitted to loving to the point of pain even after his 'death' made it seem more than a bit inappropriate to ogle him. "I was going to get take away," he explained quickly. "Indian." His eyes strayed over John's shoulder to Sherlock. Warily--he hadn't forgotten that the taller man had attacked him the other day-- he continued. "I wanted to know if you and Sherlock wanted anything."

John turned to Sherlock. "Hungry," he asked gently. He guessed that it probably wouldn't be desirable to Sherlock to casually have dinner with the man that was once his arch nemesis, but Richard was John's flatmate. If Sherlock was going to be in John's life, he'd need to learn to at least abide the actor. 

Sherlock shrugged again. "I rarely am," he replied evasively. 

John sighed. "Do you want to stay for takeaway, is what I'm asking?"

"It's your decision. It's _your _flat."__

John winced slightly. _So that_ had _stung him, then,_ he thought. He recovered quickly, his eyeroll deliberately pronounced. "I see your time away from London did nothing to make you less difficult as a person.' Though John was teasing Sherlock, he suspected that there was an underlying reason for his best friend's reluctance. He turned to Richard. "Just give us a second, yeah?"

Richard nodded. "Of course. Take you time."

John grinned weakly, offering a soft 'ta' before closing the door with a soft click. He turned back to the detective, who stood stock still in the middle of the room. "Would you be alright with dinner," he asked gently.

Sherlock bristled. "I'm always alright," he responded. "Why wouldn't I be?"

John gave him a pointed look. 

Sherlock had a mock epiphany. "Oh, you mean because we'll be having meals from our favorite restaurant with Moriarty?" He shook his head. "Why would that bother me?"

"He not like that anymore, Sherlock," John said. "And I wish you'd stop calling him that. It upsets him. He's Richard, a mostly ordinary bloke with a mostly ordinary life." John grinned. "Though he may be on his way to being famous. Again. Just give him a chance, yeah? I did, and it hasn't come back to bite me."

"Yet," Sherlock corrected. "It hasn't come back to bit you _yet_."

John gave him a long suffering sigh. "Sherlock--"

"I'll play along, John," Sherlock cut in. "For you. But forgive me if I find it all a bit too convenient, yes? I watched him shoot himself. Dead, John. He was dead. And not he's miraculously fine but somehow doesn't remember his life's work?"

"Stranger things have happened in the medical world," John replied. "And you were dead too. Clearly it doesn't hold as much clout as it used to."

"Clearly," Sherlock echoed in begrudging agreement.

John met his eyes. "So you'll stay, then?"

Sherlock nodded. "For now," he said.

"Brilliant," John returned with a weak grin. "Still the yellow curry?"

"Mm," Sherlock agreed before adding, "Though I hardly think it will compare to the real thing, which I was fortunate enough to sample in New Dehli--"

"Hold that thought," John said. "As much as I want to hear about... some of your adventures, Richard is still standing outside the door."

Sherlock closed his lips. "Fine," he gritted out. He hadn't wanted to be reminded of the other man's unfortunate presence, despite the ever present references to him. In Sherlock's mind, that man was still Moriarty, and he was still dangerous. Very little could change that.

"Just... try to be nice," John pleaded.

He opened the door, after pulling on a jumper and proper jeans, to relate their preferences. Richard simply nodded and headed off for the orders, once again leaving John and Sherlock alone. 

Sherlock settled himself in his chair. His coat had been hung up, probably courtesy of Richard. He made no remark on it. Instead, he smoothed a hand down his black trousers. They were loose on his thinner frame, but they still suited his purposes. "You kept my clothes," he said idly to John.

"Sorry," John said, emerging with a cup of tea for himself and Sherlock. 

"My clothes," Sherlock repeated. "I found them hanging in my wardrobe. Why did you keep them?"

John went red. "I... I don't want to talk about it, Sherlock."

The detective furrowed his brow. "Why not? It's a perfectly harmless question, isn't it? Wouldn't it make sense after three years that you would clear out my things?"

John sipped his tea, ignoring Sherlock.

Sherlock cocked a brow. "John?"

"I said I didn't want to talk about it," he snapped. And he didn't. Why couldn't Sherlock just let it lie?

Because he was Sherlock Holmes, that's why. "Sentiment," he scoffed after a moment.

Something about the way that he said the word, as though it were a sin for John to have missed Sherlock, enflamed the doctor. "Yes, Sherlock. Sentiment. I missed you, and I couldn't bear to bin your stuff because it was like I was binning bits of you. Don't you get that?"

Sherlock looked slightly taken aback. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize--"

"That you were being insensitive? Again," John demanded. "I suppose you wouldn't."

Sherlock held his tongue, but John seemed to have more to say. "I don't know what you did on your grand excursions across the bloody world, but let me just tell you what I did. I got my limp back. And I lost my bloody job;had to beg Sarah to have it back. I drank. Every night. Almost to the point where I could give Harry a run for her money. I verbally abused Lestrade--called him a murderer, actually. Oh and your brother? Don't even get me started on him. He came within three feet of me after what happened, and I decked him. I decked Mycroft sodding Holmes. Right in the nose. 

And then I just stopped giving a flying fuck what happened. And then, about seven months after it happened, after you jumped off of a building, I decided that I wanted to join you. Mycroft tell you that? Mm. Half a bottle of painkillers for a wound that didn't exist." He slumped onto the sofa. "Though, I supposed I have him to thank that I'm here to see you sitting there. Always knew that his godforsaken spying would come in handy one day." He looked up at Sherlock. "So yeah. I kept a few of your shirts. That all right with you?"

Sherlock sat stunned. He'd known that John would have had a tough go of his 'suicide,' but he hadn't anticipated those things. Not quite. Unsure of what to do, he rose on unsteady legs to plop next to John on the couch. "I'm sorry," he whispered for the second time that day. "I thought I was doing what I had to do. I never would have left if I'd been able to come up with something else. But I couldn't stop the snipers, John. And I wasn't about to chance it."

John nodded. "I know. You told me all ready. But I can't just be okay, yeah? You'll need to be patient."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

The other man sniffed heavily before leaning heavily against Sherlock. "To be honest," he said softly, "I'd've tried again if Richard hadn't come along."

The detective stiffened. With a shake of his head, he wrapped John in an awkward embrace, pulling him back to rest against his chest. John pushed close, inhaling the scent of Sherlock. It had changed since he'd gone. The lingering hint of formaldehyde was gone, and the aftershave had changed. John could only assume that it was Mycroft's. Where else would Sherlock be staying? 

After a moment, Sherlock's face dropped into John's hair, as if he too was taking in the familiar smell. He grinned against the dishwater blond strands before saying, "I was serious earlier," he said. 

John drew back, taking in the amused look on Sherlock's face. "About what," he asked.

"I really did buy you jumpers from every country I visited. If I had the time, I did it." He reached out a pale hand to pinch the fabric of the oatmeal knit between his first two fingers. "This had to go at some point."

"Oi," John said, giving a laugh. "My Gram knitted this for me."

Sherlock nodded. "I figured. And while I'm sure Gram wanted very much for you to love it, I think she would agree that's it's gotten a little... tired." The thing was full of holes that could be concealed by no amount of darning on Mrs. Hudson's part.

John laughed again. "All right. I can take it out for special occasions." He wrinkled his brow. "How many new jumpers am I acquiring, then?"

Sherlock scoffed. "More than enough for a good long while, I daresay."

"Right, but how many?"

"Twenty-eight."

John's eyes widened to the point of bugging. He was just about to reply when the front door opened to reveal Richard laden with take away bags. "Soup's on," he said cheerfully.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait a minute... is that an update? OMG! 
> 
> I honestly never thought I'd finish this. But I am locked in my dorm for the week. Why not?

When Sherlock finally decided to return to Scotland Yard, he hadn't anticipated that it would be easy. Not like it had been to return to John, who was taking the whole thing surprisingly well. Though Sherlock hadn't officially moved back into Baker Street, he spent the majority of his time there rather than in his brother's spare room--which could probably be related back to his dislike of his brother, especially after he head deigned to keep the secret that John was living with Moriarty from Sherlock.

As for 'Richard,' Sherlock still refused to believe that Moriarty wasn't biding his time to reveal himself and kill both him and John. After all, the deal was that John would be safe if Sherlock was dead. This knowledge had Sherlock keeping a constant eye on his flatmate turned lover. He wasn't going to go to hell and back only to lose John when he returned. This, of course, instilled an even deeper distrust in Richard, even if John adored him. Generally, Sherlock avoided the actor as he moved through the flat. 

The tension wasn't the best option, in John's opinion, but he'd allow anything if it meant he could keep Sherlock. He had, of course, opted to help Sherlock get back into his work. Greg would probably respond better if John showed that he was okay now. And if he was there to censor Sherlock. 

Of course, John had told Sherlock that he didn't know if it would be easy. Lestrade had, after all, been demoted because of Sherlock. Detective Sergeant, last time John checked. Then again, that had been almost a year and a half ago. 

Sherlock, who never got cold feet, ever, now stood in front of the familiar police station. He stopped, staring at it as John paid the cabbie. Limping around to stand beside Sherlock, he looked at his new lover. "All right?" he asked. 

Sherlock looked at John. "Of course it is," he snapped, uncertainty in his eyes. 

John reached over discreetly to deliver a quick squeeze to Sherlock's hand. "If it doesn't go well, then we'll figure something out, yeah?" 

"We'll have to," Sherlock replied. "We'll have to. I need the cases. You know that." 

"I know," John answered. "But let's not discount Greg before we even talk to him." 

Sherlock nodded, distant, as he allowed John to lead the way for once. 

Heads shot up as John entered the Yard, and mouths fell open as Sherlock followed. Many people blanched as they saw what was supposed to be a ghost. A distinct silence fell over the station, all activity ceased. It lasted a few moments before the whispered inquiries started between neighbors. A few officers and workers that Sherlock didn't recognise looked confused as they searched for some sort of confirmation on the turn of events. 

Sherlock very rarely felt uncomfortable in his own skin, but he certainly did then. It only worsened when Sherlock's initial accusers rounded the corner, called in by the sudden shift in atmosphere. When Anderson saw the detective, he stopped dead. Sally Donovan collided hard with Anderson's back as he did so. "What's all this then, Anderson?" she started to say until she registered what it was. Then her skin went an ashen grey. 

"Good to see you've finally left him, Donovan," Sherlock said levelly, voice barely wavering as he ignored the others. "Where's Lestrade?" 

"You can't honestly want to see him?" Anderson cut in. "Not after what you caused." 

Sherlock did his very best not to flinch. "I didn't orchestrate his demotion. You two always had a problem with me. But I do not have time for the 'blame game,' so to speak. Where is Lestrade?" 

"How can you bring him in here?" Anderson accused John, who had kept silent. "You know I could arrest him. He's wanted for every crime he's ever solved."

Sally made a sound behind the officer. "Come off it, Mike. As if we could actually arrest him without that well-to-do brother of his interfering." She shoved past him. "Listen, freak. I don't know how you're alive, but Greg isn't going to want to see you." 

Sherlock regarded her down his nose. "I didn't ask if he wanted to see me. I asked where he was. There is a difference." 

Sally blinked. "See you haven't changed." 

"You have no idea," he shot back. And it was true. No one did. Not even John knew exactly had gone on in the three years that Sherlock had been gone. He assumed it was traumatic based on the nightmares the detective had had, but whenever he'd tried to get Sherlock to open up on the subject, he had gone silent and refused to do so. So John hadn't pushed. Sherlock would tell him when he was ready. He hoped. "Now, are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to call through the Yard for him?" 

Sally stared up at him, defiant. "He's in his office. Upstairs one flight and the third door on the right." 

Without another word, Sherlock swept past them, John following behind as quickly as he could manage. 

When they barged through the door of the office, Lestrade had looked up from his paperwork with every intention of rebuking whoever had opened his door. When he registered the presence, however, his mouth had snapped shut. When he did finally manage to speak, all he could say was, 'Bloody hell." 

"Hello to you as well, Lestrade," Sherlock said stiffly. "Can't get rid of me that easily." 

Greg got to his feet. "What the hell are you... how are you..." He gave up trying to speak to Sherlock, instead turning his attention to John. "What is he doing here?" he asked incredulously. "How is this even possible?" 

John shrugged. "He told me it was a magic trick. I think you'd best sit down. We've got to talk." 

Still shell shocked, Lestrade complied, staring at Sherlock. The detective settled into the chair and rested his ankle on his knee in a nonchalant pose. "Well, after I was arrested by incompetents..." he began before launching into the recount of what he'd told John, including more detail on his conversation with Moriarty on the rooftop, which had John riveted to his every word. When he'd finished, he waited for Lestrade to speak, searching the man. 

"So your brother and Molly were the only ones that knew?" he asked finally. 

"That's what you drew from that?" Sherlock asked in a scathing tone. John elbowed him hard and he bit back a yelp, adding on a "Yes, that's correct." 

"And we can't get a testimony on Moriarty because Richard Brook _is_ actually Moriarty?" 

"Yes," Sherlock said. "And, according to John, doesn't remember a thing about it. However, I do have this." He reached into the deep pocket of his coat and withdrew a flash stick. Handing it across the desk, he added, "I think you'll find everything to prove me innocent on this drive." He cocked his head, watching Lestrade. 

"And that's it?" Greg asked. 

"What else is there to discuss?" Sherlock asked with a raised brow. 

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know you didn't come down here just to clear your name. You could have mailed the bloody thing to me if that's what you wanted to do. Or have had John drop it to me. What else?" 

"I see I should be giving you more credit. Clearly, your insight has improved in my absence. However, even with its development, the crime rate has climbed. My brother offered me government statistics on the London area before and after my... fall from grace, you might say." John stiffened at the choice of words, but said nothing as Sherlock continued. "Why else would I be here but to tell you that I want back in. On the work, that is." 

"Are you serious?" 

"Am I known for my sense of humour?" Sherlock retorted. 

"No." 

Sherlock felt a pit in his stomach. "No?" he echoed. 

"No," Lestrade said again. "In fact, hell no. You honestly think that I'm going to risk my job? That I'm going to let you back in after you come back to life and then waltz in here?" 

"I had hoped you would, yes," Sherlock answered, heart pounding. "You know I need the work. I need it, Lestrade." He was beginning to panic. 

"I can't," he snapped. "I just can't, Sherlock. You know it." 

"Yes, you can!" he snapped. "You can. I _need_ the cases." His hands fluttered as he leaped from his chair. 

John got to his feet with Sherlock, grabbing for his hand. "Calm down, love. Just relax." 

"You can't do this, Greg!" Sherlock shot back. "I am the reason you got Detective Inspector in the first place." 

"That's bollocks," Greg shouted. 

"Oh really?" Sherlock growled. "Shall I rattle off the cases I solved that got you promoted?" 

"Get out of my office!" Lestrade shouted. "Get out."

Sherlock glared. "I could destroy this establishment. I could--" John cut him off with a firm grab of his arm. 

"Sherlock. Home. Love, please." 

Sherlock was having none of it. "You can't just do this. You _can't_!" 

"I can't? I can't give you my job and my patience? You pretended to be dead, goddammit. It's not that easy." He looked at the other man. "Now I said get out." 

John was the only one in the world who would have noticed the slight tremble in Sherlock's chin as he glared at Lestrade as though he would gladly draw the Browning hidden in John's waistband and kill Lestrade. "We're leaving, Sherlock. We'll try something else." He let his arms encircle Sherlock's waist, ignoring Greg. "I promise I'll take care of it." 

If Sherlock hadn't been so distraught, then he might have cared about the display of affection in front of someone else. Greg had gone silent, staring. They had always suspected that something would happen between John and Sherlock, but he'd not expected it so blatantly in front of him. "Look, I... You have to understand that it would be my head." 

"Just... just stop, Greg," John whispered as Sherlock continued to stare at the Detective Inspector, stoic. John could see very devastation in his eyes as he led him out of the office. 

Sherlock stared out the window of the cab, silent. John tried to touch him, to hold his hand. Anything. But Sherlock pulled his hand into his lap. When they pulled up to the flat, Sherlock didn't get out. John stopped. "Sherlock?" 

"I need to go somewhere. I have to talk to someone important," Sherlock answered, staring straight ahead. 

"Who? Who do you need to see?" 

"My brother," Sherlock said effortlessly. "I need to see Mycroft. Goodbye, John. I'll see you later." With that, he closed the door on John, directing the cabbie to go, leaving his lover standing in the middle of the sidewalk staring after them." 

After several long minutes of trying to text and call Sherlock, John moved quickly up the stairs. Well, as quickly as he could manage on his cane. When he opened the door, Richard poked his head out of the kitchen. "John? You're home earlier than I expected." He moved into the sitting room with a smile that faded as soon as he took in the expression on John's face. "What? What is it?" 

"It's Sherlock," John said. 

Richard raised a brow. "What is it? What's wrong?" 

"He's gone off. And he said he wanted to call his brother." 

"And what's wrong with that?" Richard asked, confused. He followed John as he moved about the flat. Finally, he grabbed John's sleeve. "You're making me dizzy. Tell me what's wrong with Sherlock calling his brother? Isn't that where he lives." He chuckled and added, "When he's not with you." 

John was shaking his head as Richard spoke. "No," he said. "No, you don't understand. Sherlock _hates_ his brother. The day we met, Sherlock called Mycroft his nemesis. He would never call him. Especially not when he's upset. And the work is his life. He'd going to be freaking out right now. I could tell, Richard." 

"So it didn't go well at the Yard? And you think, what, that Sherlock is in trouble?" 

John nodded. "I need to call Mycroft. And there's a GPS tracker in his phone. But you need the password. God, it's Study in Pink all over again." He began to pace again, his cane catching on corners. "Only he didn't carve it into the bloody floor." 

"Hold on," Richard said. "We will find him. Just calm down and think for a moment." 

John nodded, dialing Mycroft's number. "Sherlock's just left me. Three minutes ago. Four maybe. No, of course it didn't go well. Did you anticipate it would?" John grabbed at his hair. "No. No. No, I tried. Don't you think I tried? And he said he was coming to you. But you and I both know that's rubbish." John sat down. "I think it might be a danger night." He said finally. 

Richard quirked a brow. Danger night? What the bloody hell did that mean? He watched John, reaching for his laptop and keying in the code. God, if he could just remember. Doubtless his old brain would be able to guess Sherlock's passcode within minutes. But he couldn't. He was just plain Richard. _Watson_ he keyed. _John._ Nothing. But he felt he needed to help. This was partially his old persona's fault. The fact that Sherlock couldn't get work anymore. He swallowed, looking to John as he hung up. "I have to go," John said quickly, getting to his feet. 

"What? Where are you going?" Richard asked as John moved towards the door. "Do you know where he is?" 

"The Oasis," John said swiftly. 

Richard thought for a moment, trailing John down the stairs. "That sleazy night club on 56th in Brixton? Why would he be there? What is the point of there?" 

"He's a history there," John explained. 

"A drug history or sexual addiction?" Richard asked. 

John stopped. "What?" 

"Some of my mates from the theatre talk about all the sluts and junkies that hang out there," he said simply. 

John swallowed. "Drug," he answered. "Cocaine. Which is why I have to go. I really have to go." 

"I'll come with you," RIchard said automatically. 

John shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea." 

Richard reached out touch John's arm. "Suppose you find him in a compromising position. With your leg and his height. You might need help." 

John really didn't have time to argue. "Yes. All right. Yes." A cab pulled up beside him and he wrenched open the door, sliding inside and giving the address, ignoring the face it earned him. "I'll pay you double if you get me there in less than ten minutes." 

Richard barely had time to slide in beside John before the car was speeding away. John looked nervous, lips pursed and face drawn. Richard swallowed. "It'll be okay," he said. "It has to be." 

John nodded. "I bloody well hope so." 


End file.
